


there's a fire in your eyes

by ohmcgee



Series: little beasts [8]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, little beasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, apparently, is his life now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a fire in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little pre-everybody else thing about bb!Dick and Bruce. It's not technically Bruce/Dick, but there's enough implied that I felt like I should list it as a pairing, in case someone didn't want to read that.

Dick’s fourteen when Bruce puts his hand on his shoulder and smiles down at him, the flames from the circus reaching towards the sky, lighting up Dick’s eyes like a firecracker. In the car on the way to the manor Bruce praises Dick for his work, but tells him a few things, like what sort of accelerants to use to make it burn faster and how to leave less evidence and Dick, ashes in his hair and gasoline on his shoes, looks up at Bruce like he's found a new religion.

“Can you show me,” he says with his knee bouncing up and down and a blaze in his eyes that never really fades and Bruce sees something in him then, an eagerness to learn, to prove himself, the buzz of something wild and unruly under his skin, and knows he made the right decision. 

 

: : : 

 

A couple of days later, when he wakes up at an unfuckinggodly hour to the sound of fire alarm screaming at his hangover, Bruce changes his mind about Dick being a good decision. He pulls a robe on over his boxers, grabs his gun from the nightstand just in case, and stumbles down the stairs to find Dick sitting cross-legged on top of the dining room table, his hand in a box of cereal, and smoke coming from the kitchen, the goddamn alarm _still_ going off like it doesn’t know Bruce is standing _right there._

“Your toaster’s fucked,” Dick says, shoving a handful of Cheerios into his mouth, then making a face and spitting them back into the box. “That tastes like shit.”

Bruce sighs, raises his gun and shoots the smoke alarm. 

“ _Cool,_ ” Dick’s eyes get big and bright, staring at the gun in Bruce’s hand, and Bruce just pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ll teach you how to use it if you promise never to step foot in that kitchen again.”

“Buy better cereal and you got a deal.” Dick grins. 

Which is how Bruce Wayne, one of the world's most dangerous assassins, ends up in a supermarket with a fourteen year old boy and a cart full of sugary cereals that Bruce is certain will send him into diabetic shock with one bite, a couple of cartons of rocky road ice cream, and enough soda to keep Gotham’s dentists set for life. Down the frozen food aisle, Dick does a picture perfect cartwheel, then walks on his hands -- right into a display of canned cat food. 

Bruce sighs as the manager approaches them, mutters under his breath, “You better be worth it.”

Dick just looks up at him from where he landed with those big, blue eyes and a crooked grin, only has to bat his lashes at the middle aged woman who manages the store to get out of it, and Bruce already knows he is.

 

: : :

 

Sometimes Dick disappears for a little while. Bruce doesn’t know where he goes, doesn’t ask. He’s not the boy’s father and Dick doesn’t owe him anything, but to Bruce’s surprise, he does find that occasionally, he feels something like concern. That when he hears Dick’s heavy footsteps in the hallway at midnight or ten am, that the heavy weight on his shoulders is lifted a bit. He tells himself it’s only because he’d have to go out and find another partner, but part of him knows it’s because he’s gotten used to the manor not being ghost-silent and so empty his footsteps echo on the staircases. 

He’s gotten used to the kid.

It’s troubling. 

 

: : :

 

“Holy shit,” Dick says, turning to look up at Bruce when they get back to the car, his eyes even bigger than usual, even brighter than when he comes home from his parties at four in the morning and tries to jump off the goddamn roof. He wets his mouth, then does it again like he forgot he just did. They just wrapped up their first job together; Dick’s first kill that didn’t involve lighting something on fire. Bruce put the mark on his knees, watched Dick raise the gun to the back of his head. 

Dick’s hands never shook, not once, and Bruce --

Bruce never really understood pride in someone other than yourself until then.

“I told you it was better than drugs.” Bruce says, starting the car. 

Dick just grins up at him, a grin that looks too big for his mouth, feels too big for the _car_ , and Bruce has to look away before it consumes him too. 

Dick leans back in his seat and stretches all the way down to his toes and giggles, “Man, I'm so hard right now.”

Bruce had noticed, actually, but he wasn’t going to say anything. It’s a completely natural response, especially for someone Dick’s age. It doesn’t happen to him much, not anymore, not always -- mostly it’s just when they beg. Bruce likes it when they beg.

“It's just adrenaline,” Bruce says. “You'll get -”

But Dick’s hand is already down his pants. “Sorry,” he giggles, arching his head back as his hand works inside his pants, baring his throat and --

The tires squeal as Bruce pulls the car onto a side street. “I’m going to get a coffee,” he says, grabbing his coat. “Hurry up.”

When he gets back Dick is all finished up, curled up in the backseat and passed out. The car smells like sex, like sweat and boy and gunpowder, and Bruce drives home with his dick hard, Dick mumbling about elephants in his sleep behind him. 

 

: : :

 

Bruce isn’t actually stupid. He’s aware the boy has some kind of crush on him, probably some kind of transference from Bruce grabbing him before the cops could and taking him in. Not to mention the fact that at his age, with his metabolism, he literally wants to fuck everything. Bruce has seen him come just from rubbing his legs together the right way after blowing a building up. It’s ridiculous. 

So, the first time he comes home to find Dick sprawled out on the couch, pants around his ankles and his dick in his hand, Bruce just shakes his head and heads up to his study. 

The second time he walks in, the smell of sex and sweat so thick in the air Bruce can only imagine he’s been at it for hours, he looks at Dick, lifts an eyebrow at him, and watches Dick’s mouth bleed when he bites into it and comes all over himself. 

When he comes home to find Dick higher than a space station, twirling around in a fucking skirt and sucking on something sticky and bright blue like he’s auditioning for porn, Bruce actually thinks about it. 

Dick would let him. Dick _wants_ him to. He could bend him right over the dining table, push his skirt up, fill his tight little hole with his cock and fuck him until he begged him to stop, until he was dripping with Bruce’s come and covered in his own. 

It would be so easy to take Dick to his bed, to bury himself inside of him every night, to feel Dick under him, on top of him, next to him. If Dick wasn’t fifteen and had any kind of clue what he actually wanted, if Bruce wasn’t concerned about the distraction it would cause when they’re out in the field, supposed to be watching each other’s backs -- maybe he would. 

But life’s not easy. Life, apparently, is making sure Dick drinks enough water to counter the amount of MDMA in his system. Life is listening to him sing _I Feel Pretty_ as he twirls and twirls until he crashes, then scooping him up off the floor and putting him in his own bed.

This, apparently, is his life now. 

Bruce walks back out into the hallway and nearly trips over a shoe. There’s a t-shirt draped over the railing, bits and bobs scattered down the stairs, a half eaten poptart smushed between the cushions on the couch. Bruce doesn’t remember the house ever looking like this, ever _feeling_ like this.

It feels good. 

For the first time in ages, it feels like home.


End file.
